


like a map that traced her pain

by graceverse



Series: 31 Days of Jonsa [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Sexual Content, post season 8-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 01:33:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13916535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceverse/pseuds/graceverse
Summary: Like a map that traced her pain, the aches and the sorrows of her soul, a network of intertwined lines, veins and rivers and roads that aimlessly meander across her skin, Jon follows the latticework of scars with his fingers, his skin barely grazing hers, gentle and calloused. He doesn’t say anything; he knows that he doesn’t have to. Sometimes, his breath ghosts against her skin as he shifts position, pulling her closer to him, twining their fingers together as he nuzzles his nose against the curve of her neck, lips skimming her pulse point. Sometimes, he’d let his tongue flick, as though tasting these long ago wounds that Ramsay no longer owned.Day 2 of 31 Days of Jonsa Challenge (Scars)





	like a map that traced her pain

**Author's Note:**

> So. I posted the Day 2 challenge even though it's already the 9th day. *peeks nervously* I hope that's ok? If not, I can always just not include it in the challenge :)

Like a map that traced her pain, the aches and the sorrows of her soul, a network of intertwined lines, veins and rivers and roads that aimlessly meander across her skin, Jon follows the latticework of scars with his fingers, his skin barely grazing hers, gentle and calloused. He doesn’t say anything; he knows that he doesn’t have to. Sometimes, his breath ghosts against her skin as he shifts position, pulling her closer to him, twining their fingers together as he nuzzles his nose against the curve of her neck, lips skimming her pulse point. Sometimes, he’d let his tongue flick, as though tasting these long ago wounds that Ramsay no longer owned. 

The first time she bared herself to him, she had ducked her head low, almost burrowing into Jon’s chest. She was half blinded by her tears that she was determined not to spill. She had cried enough. She wasn’t going to cry on her wedding night, not when Jon had looked at her with something akin to awe. The intensity of his gaze never wavering, always so constant, it made her feel powerful and weak at the same time.  

Sansa could feel the cool air against her skin as Jon tenderly pushed her sleeping gown off her shoulders, the whisper of silk seemed loud enough inside the impossibly quiet room. She could barely see Jon’s own chest. The dark angry scar above his heart wavered and blurred and it made her throat constrict painfully. She had let out a strangled sob, not for her, but for her once half-brother, turned cousin and now husband. She could endure her pain but not Jon’s. They had been betrayed one too many times, left lost and alone, desperate and wounded wolves howling into the night, crying for home, crying for each other.

Jon had taken her chin, his palms cradling her face, letting her tears fall and soak through his skin. His other free hand had grasped her hips; the roughened pad of his thumb delicately circling the scar Ramsay’s knife had left when he had angrily cut off her small clothes. And already, that memory was starting to fade, replaced by the warmth of Jon’s strong hand as he gripped her tighter, pulling her all the more closer towards him. He lifted her face until she was forced to stare up at him. His eyes were dark, like winter nights when clouds gathered around Winterfell and there were no stars and the light of the gray moon was swallowed up by winter storms. But his eyes, like his touch was fire and heat, the scorching breath of a dragon waking up from a deep slumber.

“Wife,” Jon’s voice was deep, solemn, a low grumble as he leaned forward to whisper her name.  “I have dreamt of calling you that. You have no idea, Sansa…” Jon let out an explosive breath, almost a snarl, remembering how long he had fought against his feelings for her. “How much I have wanted it even before, even when I knew that I shouldn’t – _couldn’t –_ have you. Even when I had thought it was a sin.” Jon had his arm wrapped around her waist as he positioned himself between her thighs and Sansa could feel his strength, the hard planes of his muscled body.

“Husband,” Sansa answered just as fervently, and from the deepest, darkest secret place of her heart, she confessed the same sin. The same desperation she felt when she had thought that he loved someone else, that he would leave her in a home that will never truly be a home without him. 

“Never.” Jon growled, hands moving from her face to the valley between her breasts, gliding lower, palms turning into knuckles as he gently, gently dragged his fist across her stomach and the crisscrossed marks of knives that had teased and then slowly cut against her skin.

Sansa remembered that night --- but Jon’s touch was turning the memory into something else, the horror and the pain fading away, replaced by the delicious wet heat of his mouth as he began kissing her skin. Sucking at the faintly puckered flesh, into the deeper groves where Ramsay’s knife had truly cut her and made her bleed. Jon laved her skin with his tongue, erasing everything that used to ache and sting.

Sansa whimpered, murmuring stringed-up words that did not make sense, that did not sound like any langue she knew, a mixture of yes-no-gods-Jon-please-please-please all coming together, her ragged breath rendering them incoherent. But Jon seemed to understand and he kissed her and kissed and kissed her until he had marked all of her scars, as though claiming them, as though he could and would kiss all the hurt away, erasing the dark memories tied to them.

He would. He could.

It was a silent promise that shone in his dark eyes that held her stare before he slowly parted her legs, kissing her where she had been so badly wounded and used, the horror of surrendering to Ramsay’s cruelty was replaced by this sudden need to have Jon inside her, truly, fully inside her. Sansa tugged at his curls, uncaring if it hurt him. She wordlessly urged him to come up and claim her now… _now_.

She wanted Jon to be inside her when she shatters and falls apart. She wanted to be able to surrender herself into the edge and become part of the ebb and flow of this world, to be without thought and fears, to be free of the monsters that lurked within the shadows of her mind. She wished to be reduced into nothing but the purest form of sensation. She wanted Jon to join her and bear witness at the unfolding of her skin, so he could crawl into the hidden places inside of her that had not been touched by sorrow and anger and despair. Because it's Jon. And her trust in him was so absolute, she was certain that he will always be there to gather her back up again and make her whole and strong and _h_ _is._  

Jon, so attuned to her, obliges. He enters, swiftly, in one stroke, his head settling on the crook of her neck. It took Sansa as second to realize that Jon was chanting her name, his voice dark and raw, filled with the same need and want that she had felt earlier.

 _SansaSansaSansaSansa_ was a never ending kiss against her pulse point. Sansa arched her back as his hand dropped to where they were joined and suddenly, she could no longer think; there was only Jon and his mouth and his fingers and the white hot heat curling and unraveling inside of her.

This was how it was to be loved and wanted and needed and breathed life into and Sansa knew that she was finally, finally starting to heal. Some scars will fade, some scars will become old, brittle skin, but it did not matter anymore. Her scars no longer ached and burned. She could look at them and remember exactly how Jon had caressed it with his calloused fingers, or kissed it with his adoring lips.

Sansa had taken her body back, it belonged only to her now. And to Jon, because she gave it to him freely and how wonderfully, utterly did he cherish it.  

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm, also this is my first ever ever fic that has sexual content. So uhm, yes... I'm oddly feeling shy. But don't mind me. I will just quietly sit in the corner and wonder how I was able to write all that down.


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